


To Go Home

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Hiatus, M/M, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is half a world away and he is alone, on his own with no one to save him, no one to smile at him over the edge of the newspaper, no one to make his heart stop aching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Go Home

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LJ as a response to a Kinkmeme prompt.
> 
> Based on/inspired by Nick Cave's "To Be By Your Side", but you don't need to know the song for the story to make sense.

He is half a world away, was half a world away long before seas and countries separated them. Was half a world away when Watson handed him a cup of tea, when Watson smiled at him and he didn’t dare smile back, when Watson bandaged his arm, warm hands lingering just a heartbeat too long on white cotton.  Was half a world away when he was looking at Watson, knowing that if he should tilt his head just right, something would happen, would change everything, would realign the stars and shake the very foundations of the Earth, though what it was he did not know. Was half a world away when he stared into the fire with dark eyes, trying not to think about Watson, the veins in his arm tender and bruised, rivers of crimson and purple and blue, flowing beneath his skin. Was half a world away with the roar of the waterfall and his racing mind between them.

  
He is half a world away and he is alone, on his own with no one to save him, no one to smile at him over the edge of the newspaper, no one to make his heart stop aching. He has always been on his own, in a way. He tells himself he doesn’t need Watson, that he can do it alone, tries to hold himself upright on shaking legs and bare feet with his mind racing, racing still. He tells himself he doesn’t think of Watson when he hesitates a split second before slipping the needle into his vein anyway. He tells himself he doesn’t need Watson. He tells himself he doesn’t need the cocaine. He tells himself a lot of things with his eyes dark, and getting darker still and his head spinning in concentric circles.

  
He is half a world away and he doesn’t know who he is anymore. He is trapped in memories of what was and what could have been and what should have been. The dusk brings only sadness and loneliness and the sorrow of the night. When he closes his eyes he sees Watson’s face, smiling fondly or groaning with feigned exasperation. And soon, all too soon, the vision doesn’t fade anymore when he opens his eyes, stays with him, burns itself into his retina, blinds him, consumes him. He is blind to all else, blind to the tide that turns the sea, blind to the realigning of the stars, blind to the changing of the world, of his luck. But then suddenly he realizes that a lonely world, a lonely life is a waste. And so he goes back to Watson and, though the dusk no longer brings sorrow, his mind is racing, racing still, racing as it always will and he is still so far away.

  
He is half a world away when he is looking at Watson, knowing that if he tilted his head just right something would happen, would change everything, though what it is he does not know and it scares him. Outside their window a storm is raging and it shakes the trees and it blows away their fears. And so Holmes tilts his head just right and Watson cups his face and presses their lips together and it changes everything, realigns the stars and shakes the very foundations of the Earth, makes everything click into place and for a glorious, breathless moment Holmes lets himself believe that it is because this, this is where he’s meant to be.

  
His mind is still racing, racing as it always will, but he is home, finally home now.﻿


End file.
